Pulling Strings
by DefinitelyNotPie
Summary: When Molly gets an unusual and disturbing phone call from Sherlock one afternoon, she feels something is greatly amiss and opts to investigate for herself. Series 4 spoilers, Post-TFP/Phone Call scene, Molly's perspective.
1. Intuition

"Molly...?"

"Molly, _please_..."

As far as days went, thus far, this one was complete shit. It had started the same as any other, she woke up, fed Toby, got the Sundays, and sat down for coffee and toast. Molly always liked to read the announcements, enjoying the vicarious romance of others through reading about their dramatic engagements and fairy tale weddings. However, one particular posting caught her eye and the day went downhill from there. Tom Birch, her previous fiance, had successfully wedded a lovely woman from Sussex, where their ceremony had taken place. Seeing as how Molly was the one to break off their engagement, she had thought she'd be happy for him. But instead, she felt wretched. A perfectly good man, who loved and wanted her, and she turned him away... for the most arrogant ass of a man ever to walk the earth.

Sherlock Holmes had been the bane of her existence since the day she met him. But as much as that, he was also a boon. She knew that he truly and deeply cared for her in his own unique way, despite all his pomp and circumstance, but more often than not, Molly was convinced that it wasn't enough. And on a day like today, when she saw a future she could have had now closed to her forever, it was most certainly not.

It was in this cascade of self-pity that she found herself when her phone began to ring. She had been making herself some tea, hours of sobbing had her feeling raw and tired, and she had just taken a moment after putting the kettle on when she heard her mobile behind her. She knew it was him. She didn't know how she knew, other than, of course it fucking was. She turned, glancing at the screen for confirmation before setting about her original task and ignoring the call. She wasn't in the mood for his demands, his manipulations, his insane machinations where she was always a helpless, but willing cog. As selfish and irrational as it was, she felt justified in blaming him for her misery today. She had earned it, after all these years of falling over herself, being tied into knots in order to please him, with no reward for any of it but the occasional smile. She felt equal senses of relief and guilt when the call went to voicemail. Both of which painfully transformed into aggravation when the ringing began anew. Exasperated, and well aware that if she didn't answer his call he'd likely break into her flat with his demands and reproach, she caved.

"Hello, Sherlock. Is this urgent? Because I'm not having a good day."

The entire conversation thus far had been an exercise in pain. Without a word of explanation or even salutation, he'd asked for her unquestioning help. Demanding of her the last thing that was hers, and hers alone. Sherlock had asked her to say the words, the words that hung above her every interaction with him. The words whose perpetual silence were the last remaining threads of the emotional tapestry she'd spent her life weaving, that had been slowly unraveling over the years, ever since Sherlock Holmes exploded into her morgue and caught a snag. Now, here he was pulling the strings yet again. There'd be nothing left after this, she felt, she feared, because when those last strands fell she'd be naked, exposed entirely, no longer the cat in the box - both dead and alive. There would be no return from this.

She made him say it first. It seemed like a reasonable, albeit childish, request, seeing as how it was something she felt confident that she would never hear from his lips otherwise and that, the moment she said it, all would be lost. But then, he did say it. "I... I love you." It was forced, but he had tried and she was satisfied, well as much as she could be, all things considered. It was while she was allowing herself the briefest fantasy in the wake of it when he turned everything upside down.

"I love you..." he suddenly breathed and she stopped breathing.

Her head swam. She looked at the phone. Who was she talking to again? Something had changed dramatically from a moment ago, and she wasn't certain she had had anything to do with it. She looked down at the phone, as though she could see his face on the screen. She remembered to breathe. Her heart was pounding in her throat, the words trying to force their way past it.

Quid pro quo. _You say it first._

He had.

Her turn.

"Molly?"

His voice hollow and quiet. Her heart was still holding back the words. She could feel them, the pressure building in her chest like a geyser. Lightly, she brushed her fingers against the microphone, as though she were tracing his lips, slowly, reverently, drawing it closer to her mouth.

"Molly, _please_..." He sounded desperate. Breathless. Afraid.

 _Why is he afraid?_

She was afraid, then. She was suddenly struck with the feeling that she absolutely had to force them out. Push past the pressure and the pain, because Sherlock needed her. He always needs her. Barely breathing, her mouth opens, a pregnant pause as she shudders them through, the words are ash in her throat, "I love you..."

Then nothing.

Silence.

She doesn't know when she comes back to herself.

"Sherlock? Are you there?"

Her eyes are filled with tears and she feels as though she should be angry, furious, broken... but she's not. Molly is very, very confused. Sherlock Holmes can make Molly Hooper feel a great many things. A broad, blinding spectrum of emotions, but never confusion, not like this. She collects herself, looking at her phone.

Something wasn't right. Which meant...

Something was very wrong.


	2. Intrigue

Something wasn't right. Which meant...

Something was very wrong.

 **Where are you? - MH**

 **Are you with Sherlock? - MH**

 **Answer your bloody phone! - MH**

Molly had sent at least 20 texts to John and Sherlock, desperately trying to get a bead on at least one of them. She'd lost count of the number of times she'd actually tried calling. Each phone went straight to voicemail.

What the Hell could be going on? Her first concern was that Sherlock had slid back into using, which made her concerned about John and Rosie, because what other reason would he have for starting up again after they all worked so hard to help him get clean. No, it couldn't be that. He sounded lucid and said he was on a case. John must be with him, but why couldn't she reach them? As she paced her kitchen for what may have been the hundredth time, she quickly dialed Mrs. Hudson. If anyone knew what the boys might be up to, it was Martha. It goes to voicemail.

"Goddammit!" Molly hisses to herself and drops the phone on her counter, not too gently. She rushes over to her window and scans the street, then she sees what she's looking for. She grabs a few notes out of her wallet and jots her number onto a scrap of paper. After slipping on her shoes and coat, she leaves the flat and marches across the street to her target.

Bill Wiggins is perched in his usual spot on the corner, watching her flat as always. She had known for months that Sherlock's homeless network were a part of the security detail that Sherlock had on everyone in his life that he deemed important somehow. It wasn't always Wiggins, but he was on today. He seemed startled by her approach.

"Where's Sherlock?" she says bluntly, forgoing pleasantries. He fumbles a bit, clearly unprepared to be interrogated.

"Oi, missus. I 'aven't seen 'im. Jus' tol' me to watch ye. Is all 'e said."

"When? When did you speak to him?"

"Didn't, missus. 'e sent a text. Said, 'Watch Molly 'ooper.' Was a week ago, 'roundabouts. Maybe two..." He flushes, embarrassed, "Bit of a blur, misses..."

She glares at him a moment. She knows he is involved whenever Sherlock takes to drugs and she can't help herself.

"Is he on drugs again?" her tone is sharp, stinging. He flinches.

"No, missus! I swear it on me mum's grave. 'e ain't been usin'."

He's telling the truth. Molly sighs. She shoves the notes and number into his hands. Stepping back she adds,

"I haven't been able to reach him, or John, or Martha. I think he's in trouble. Find him and call me." She begins to walk away but Wiggins calls out to her,

"I will, missus! You can be sure of it!" Molly pauses a moment, and turns back to him.

"Why do you keep calling me 'missus'?" she asks, just now realizing he's been using that term for her. Again, he appears shy.

"Since you laid into 'im back at Bart's... 'slike yer his old lady. 've seen it, the way 'e is wif you. We all call you 'missus.'" He shrugs and gives her a sweet smile. Before she can respond, he holds up the hand with her money, as if to show he's getting on task and will be in touch. She nods, a bit bewildered, but continues back to her flat.

Molly doesn't know how long it could take for Wiggins to get back to her, and she's determined not to sit this one out. No harm in doing some investigating of her own while she waits for news. She almost laughs, imagining what Sherlock would say to her if he knew she was about to go off on a case all by herself, but her mirth is short lived, remembering how dire the situation could really be and how badly she needs to find Sherlock and to find him all right. She goes to her bedroom and changes, suddenly feeling like she very much needs fresh clothes. She'd considered a shower, but thinks better of it in favor of time. She checks her phone again while shrugging back into her coat and pocketing her keys.

No calls. No texts.

She tumbles out onto the street and waves down a taxi.

The road she's bound for is closed and there are police in the distance. Along with a lingering and disconcerting smell of smoke in the air. Molly throws some notes at the cabbie and jumps out of the car, then instinctively breaks into a run down Baker Street.

Approaching the scene, her stomach drops and her legs buckle. She presses through the crowd, her panic rising as she comes to the front and finds a great smoldering hole where 221b had once been.

 _Oh God, no..._

Her heart is pounding in her ears while she desperately scans the area for a familiar face, but she sees none. Molly doesn't realize she's screaming Sherlock's name until Philip Anderson rushes over from a nearby police car and takes her by the shoulders, shaking her gently.

"Molly! Molly!"

She looks at the man, blinking wildly. Anderson sees her attention turn to him and continues,

"No one was hurt. He's not here." He soothes. Molly releases a deep breath, relieved for a moment.

"What's happened? Where is he? I just spoke to him! Where is he?!" she shouts, each word increasing in volume and intensity until she's screaming again.

Anderson holds up his hands, an attempt to placate her.

"There was a bomb. We don't know anything more than that. It happened this morning and no one has seen them since. Wait - You say you spoke to him? When?"

"I don't know... maybe 30 minutes ago. Maybe an hour. He called me at my flat. He... he was acting strangely, but he wouldn't really tell me anything. Where's Greg?" Molly demands.

"At the Yard. He was one of the first responders. Took Mrs. Hudson to a neighbor's house. She said that Sherlock, John, and Mycroft were all unhurt. She doesn't know where they went."

Molly gasped, "Mrs. Hudson was there? Oh God, did she have Rosie?!"

Anderson runs a hand down his face, obviously tired, and shakes his head, "No. Look, Molly, I know you're worried, but you should go home. If we find out anything or hear anything, I'll be sure you're one of the first to know. And if you hear anything..."

Molly only half listens while she takes in the damage that she can see from the street. She nods absently at Anderson and slowly backs away. Mrs. Hudson was ok. Rosie wasn't there. It happened this morning, so Sherlock called her hours later. She takes a deep breath, processing this new information. She zeroes in on the tube station and pulls out her phone. One text.

 **S and W took a boat out this morning with M. – BW**

Molly frowned. Not exactly helpful, but she knows now he's not in London. She grabs a coffee at the station and send off a few more texts, before boarding the car for St. James Park.

 **Greg, I'll be there in 20 minutes. - MH**

 **John, please respond. - MH**

 **Sherlock, where are you? - MH**


	3. Invocation

Molly flies into New Scotland Yard like a force of nature. Sally Donovan sees her storming through the office and steps out of the way before she has the mind to question her. In his office, looking haggard, Greg Lestrade looks up both nervous and surprised by the presence Molly is exuding.

"Where is he?" she asks simply. Greg takes a deep breath and turns his palms to the ceiling.

"Molls, I'm not sure. The other day there was something about a Holmes sister, locked up in an asylum since she was a girl. A place called Sherrinford. She got out somehow, pretended to be John's therapist and that Culverton Smith's daughter. Played Sherlock like a bloody fiddle and shot John." Molly gasps in horror, but before she can speak, he assures her, "It was a tranquilizer. He's fine. Well, he was fine."

Molly interrupts, "Wiggins says that Sherlock, Mycroft, and John were seen taking a boat out this morning, must have been sometime after…"

"After the flat blew," he finishes for her. "They took off for this Sherrinford place to find her. Stop her." After a sigh, Lestrade gestures for Molly to take a seat. Reluctantly, she does.

"Where is Sherrinford? Anderson said the explosion happened this morning?" Her questions are rapid fire, she leans forward an inch with each one.

Again he answers with the calming hand gestures, "Yes. Mycroft went to Baker Street to talk to Sherlock, then there was a drone flown in with a bomb on it. The Holmes boys are pretty clever, so of course they managed to get out relatively unscathed. I spoke briefly with Mycroft before they took off, which was hours ago. Sherrinford is an island; a bloody fortress. The facility maintains regular radio contact with the mainland, but sometime after the boys left the place went dark."

"Went dark? You've lost contact with Sherrinford?" Molly asked, her tone accusatory.

"Now, not me personally, Molls. Come on..." Greg moans, affronted. "Listen, there's not much we can do from here. It's a government run facility, most definitely not my division. There's no way in or out without proper clearance and I have no idea where it even is. We just have to sit tight until we hear something."

Molly shakes her head, "No Greg, something is wrong. Sherlock called me, he said he was on a case... doing an experiment, and he asked me to tell him I loved him, I mean, to say 'I love you.'" Her voices cracks a moment, Greg looks at her in horror, but she steels herself, "That is not something Sherlock would do unless he had a bloody good reason, because you and I both know how utterly absurd it is for him to ask such a thing. I don't know why he needed it, but as soon as I said it we were disconnected. I can't reach John or Sherlock. I don't have Mycroft's number, but I doubt I'd reach him either. Something is very, very wrong, Greg. I just know it."

"Yeah, alright. But I honestly don't know what we can really do." He looks tired and defeated.

Molly chews her lip, thinking. "What about Anthea? Mycroft's PA. Surely, you have her contact and she would know where at least he is." She looks hopefully at the silver-haired man, who looks back at her somberly.

"Ay, she might. Could take some time tracking down her number, because no, I don't have it…"

Molly groans impatiently and pulls her phone out. She dials the number that she got Wiggins' text from.

"Oi, missus?" he chirps.

"Billy, I need Anthea's contact."

"What? Mycroft's bird? Yeah, alright. Two seconds…" She hears him pull away from the phone and rummaging about. After a moment he's back, reciting the numbers. Grabbing a pen off Lestrade's desk she writes it down on the palm of her hand, unable to find a scrap of paper in time.

"Thanks, Billy. Coffee on me," she says quickly and hangs up. Lestrade gapes at her as she quickly dials in the number. After a few rings, she hears the bored voice of Mycroft's brunette PA.

"Dr. Hooper. How can I help you?" she asks flatly.

"I need the coordinates to Sherrinford and a helicopter," Molly says coolly, as though she were ordering take-away. There's a pause on the other end, then Anthea clears her throat. Clearly understanding that the usually docile and level-headed pathologist will brook no refusals today.

"I see. Well, give me a few minutes to see what I can do. I'll be in touch, Dr. Hooper." The call disconnects.

Molly places the phone back in her lap and looks up at Greg, who is still staring at her stupidly.

"What?" she asks, almost nervously. This seems to break the spell and he blinks, shaking his head quickly.

"Nothing, I just – I've never seen you so… I don't even know what to call it." He huffs a laugh.

Molly shrugs, unsure herself, "I just want to know what's going on. I think Sherlock is in danger and I want to help. I always help." She places her hands in her lap and straightens, holding up her head. The inspector watches her closely, his expression suddenly unreadable.

Quietly, she voices her suspicions.

"You know, don't you?"

It's not so much a question as a statement. She narrows her eyes at him, a silent understanding hovering between them. Her eyes soften and she opens her mouth to speak, though she isn't sure what it is she's about to say when her phone begins ringing. It's Anthea, and Molly answers immediately.

It's almost dark by the time Anthea has managed to arrange a transport to Sherrinford. Several calls are exchanged between the two women regarding the radio silence of Sherrinford and the back channels needing to be taken to secure the details of their mission. Anthea has agreed to meet them at the heliport. As Lestrade is gathering his things, he seems alarmed as Molly stands at the ready. "You do realize I'm going with you," she barks.

"Molly..."

"I'm going," she says, her tone final, "Their security has clearly been compromised. I am not only a forensic pathologist, I am also a doctor. This facility may find itself in need of my services and I have the approval of Mycroft Holmes," she finishes with confidence.

Greg sighs, "Yeah, but approval for what?"

Molly waves her hand dismissively as she walks toward the lift to the garage. "Semantics, Greg. Let's go." Lestrade heaves a sigh as he straightens his coat, following briskly behind Molly Hooper.


	4. Initiative

Anthea is waiting on the helipad at the transit authority when Molly arrives with Lestrade, Donovan, and a few other officers in tow. The PA is casually tapping away at her Blackberry as they approach, she looks up and, much to Molly's surprise, smiles warmly.

"Dr. Hooper. I'm glad you chose to join us."

"Choice implies that there were other options available to me. There weren't. This is where I am needed and where I have to be," Molly says casually, but there is a subtle note of ferocity in her tone.

Anthea smirks knowingly and nods, "Very well. We have 3 helicopters at our disposal, given the team you've brought, that should be sufficient. Seeing as how the security at Sherrinford has clearly been compromised, we will also be accompanied by Her Majesty's Navy and Coast Guard. Any resistance on the part of the island's security will be dealt with in short order." She drags her gaze across the slap-dash group of bobbies behind the pathologist and gestures toward the helicopters.

Lestrade seems hesitant, if only due to Molly's unusually domineering attitude, but he waves his men on and they disperse amongst the choppers. Molly casts a glance over her shoulder at Greg, she furrows her brow and jerks her head in the direction of the larger aircraft, where Anthea has already seated herself beside the pilot and secured her safety belt and earphones. The pathologist pulls herself into a seat and watches Greg reluctantly clamor in behind her while she settles herself in, as Anthea had.

"Molls…" Greg begins, sitting himself next her and buckling his seat belt. Molly turns to him, eyes wide and expectant, he continues, "Are you sure you want to come along? We have no idea what we're going walking into and you've no formal training for this sort of thing. Hell, I could get in deep shit for bringing you along at all!"

Molly snorts. Greg looks at her questioningly as she laughs, "And here I thought I was bringing you along." She doesn't say anything more, turning her attention to the window, watching the rotors gain momentum and the ground slowly drift away beneath her. She shuts her eyes tight, the motion of flight stirring in her chest and nauseating her. She takes several deep breaths, and looks out over the Thames as the city slips away.

The flight into Sherrinford takes about 2 hours, there is little discussion amongst the passengers with her, aside from Lestrade communicating with his team and the military regarding a plan of action. Molly watches the boats from the Coast Guard skipping along the water beside them, leaving long, foaming trails in their wakes. She spots lights in the distance, and seeing as how they're in the middle of the ocean, deduces that this is their destination. She straightens her back and cracks her neck with a tilt of her head. Anticipating the uncomfortable descent, she grips the hand holds by her seat and shuts her eyes.

Before landing, the lead chopper broadcasts a warning into Sherrinford to lay down arms. This is backed by similar warnings being called out to the perimeter security detail via megaphone from the ships below. After a pause, in which Molly can only assume compliance has been established, two armored teams disembark and bleed out over the island, quickly detaining any and all of the faculty population they encounter. It is shortly after that Molly and Greg, along with the others from Scotland Yard, are able to get off the helicopters, and filter into the facility from the roof.

The HMN having made clean work of detaining the employees and security teams within Sherrinford. Anthea and Molly, with Greg on their heels, march directly to the main control room. Looking over at the group of employees, currently lined up against the wall with their hands on their heads while Anthea pecks through the chain of command for information.

Molly rushes to what appears to be a surveillance center, taking in several areas within the prison that are clearly monitored on the regular on the bank of screens before her. Molly looks hard at the controls, but knows she doesn't have the time to figure out how they all work. She looks to the console again, and, seeing a name placard beside one of the monitors, turns again towards the detainees, "Baker! Edmund Baker!" she bellows.

Anthea pauses and looks to her. She seems to understand what Molly is after and looks to her charges, "Edmund Baker?" she looks for recognition amongst them. One man, near the end of the line grimaces and Anthea sees it immediately. She waves her hand toward him, and one of the armed soldiers pulls the man to his feet. Anthea barely looks at him, "Dr. Hooper requires your assistance." Before he can protest, his armed guard drags him to the center of the room and towards the console.

"Sit," Molly commands. Baker does, reluctantly. She points to the monitors and stares pointedly at the man, "Where are they?"

He hesitates, "Wh- Where's who?" Unblinking, Molly leans down until she is eye to eye with the trembling man. She grits her teeth in frustration, then proceeds with an eerie calm,

"I'm a forensic pathologist, Edmund. Do you know what that means? It means that, just off the top of my head, I can think of over 100 ways to kill you without rousing even the slightest suspicion of foul play. I can also make you disappear completely. Cooperate please, I'm not in the fucking mood." She straightens but keeps her eyes on the man at the terminal. Her expression is all the instruction he needs. He punches a few keys and one of the monitors shows a holding cell. Looking closely, Molly can see Mycroft Holmes soundlessly pounding his fists against a glass partition.

"Greg!" she calls. The inspector runs to her side and looks at the screen. "Where is this?" she asks.

Baker looks down at his lap, like a child being scolded, "Level 5, block C."

"Got it." Greg huffs and takes off. Out of the corner of her eyes she sees him approach Anthea and they converse heatedly before leaving the room with a handcuffed guard in tow.

"Where are the others?" Molly asks impatiently. Baker sighs and appears visibly conflicted, struggling to speak to her. She grabs him by his shoulders, turning him to face her. She levels with him again, "WHERE. IS. SHERLOCK. HOLMES?!" she roars.

Edmund Baker begins to cry, "I… I can't…" shaking his head vigorously while sobbing, "I'm not allowed to tell you…"

Molly sighs, coming back to herself. The man is clearly distressed, although she doesn't understand why. She considers a different tactic, "OK, Edmund. You can't tell me. I want you to show me."

Edmund blinks rapidly for a moment, as though processing what she's said. He begins nodding dumbly, then fumbles at the controls, pecking away at the keyboard. On another screen, he draws up a map. This map is not of Sherrinford, but an isolated area outside of Wales. He points at the screen and stutters, "M… Mm… Mu… Mus…grave…" This simple word seems to have nearly done him in, as he begins hyperventilating.

Molly waves down a guardsman, "He's having a panic attack, get him out of here." she mutters, then looks back at the console before her.

 _What the Hell is Musgrave? Why would Sherlock be there?_

Her thoughts are interrupted when she notices something left open on the screen. The map that Baker had drawn up was in a folder titled, "Redbeard." Within it she sees several other file icons, none of them meaning anything to her except one, labeled "M. Hooper." Molly's face becomes grave, and she slowly sits herself into the now vacant chair. She glances quickly at the screen where she had seen Mycroft, noticing that Lestrade has reached him and managed to get him out of the cell. She suspects they will be back to the main control room within a few minutes. She takes a shuddered breath, and opens the file. It contains a single video recording. Molly grabs the headphones that lie beside the monitor and places them gently on her head, her hand shakes as she plays the video.

A small coffin is brightly lit from overhead in an otherwise empty room. She sees Sherlock enter, a gun in his hand, along with John and Mycroft. There's a brief conversation between Sherlock and what sounds like a young girl, but it is interrupted by the voice of a woman. Molly watches closely and strains to hear over all the barking and shouting in the room around her.

"Someone is going to die."

"So many words unsaid. Et cetera…"

"Just look at the name on the lid."

"So, who loves you?"

"She's perfectly safe for the moment. Her flat is rigged to explode in approximately three minutes."

Molly chokes, not realizing she's been holding her breath. She watches in horror and her eyes fill with tears as she listens to the phone call between herself and Sherlock, but this time with commentary for the ominous woman's voice over him.

"Softer, Sherlock…"

A sob escapes from Molly and she claps a hand over her mouth.

"I saved Molly Hooper."

"You didn't win, you lost. Look at what you did to her…"

Her heart is pounding in her ears, her breathing erratic. She wills herself to focus, blinking rapidly until the blur of tears recedes.

"Sherlock?" she hears John.

Time seems to stand still, then, as she watches Sherlock begin savagely pounding on the coffin, her coffin. He grunts and cries as he tears the box apart with his bare hands, before he howls like a wounded animal and collapses to the floor. Her face drops into her hands as her body wracks with sobs, her stomach feels like a stone and her head is throbbing.

She doesn't notice when Lestrade kneels beside her, but suddenly she feels hands on her shoulders. Startled, she looks up and turns her head to see Mycroft Holmes looking down at her. He looks sad, at least, what would count as sad considering it's Mycroft Holmes. He sighs, and looks about to speak and Molly is suddenly afraid of what he has to say, she wrangles some semblance of control and quickly blurts, "Musgrave. Sherlock and John are at Musgrave."

Mycroft eyes widen in shock, his mouth agape, but just as quickly as it came his resolve returns and he nods, walking back toward Anthea.

Molly casts her eyes back to the screen. The recording has ended. She doesn't look at Lestrade, but he stands and gently squeezes her shoulder before trailing after Mycroft. She doesn't know how long she sits there, drowning in her own thoughts, when Mycroft gently leads her back to the helicopters.


	5. Inhibition

The only thing Molly Hooper is sure of is that it's after midnight, which means today is now yesterday and yesterday is gone. She would have believed it was all a dream had it not been for Anthea gently waking her after they landed back in London. She's not sure if the twist in her gut is relief or despair that it wasn't all just a dream.

One of Mycroft's cars meets them at the transit authority and, together, Mycroft and Molly drive away. Lestrade took his team, along with two helicopters to meet a veritable army of local authority at Musgrave, in the hopes of aiding Sherlock. Molly had been prepared to go along, but Mycroft absolutely refused her. She was fully prepared to fight the man, except they finally received word from Sherlock. Everyone was safe. With this information, Molly allowed herself to be dissuaded.

Mycroft is speaking abstractly about the happenings at Sherrinford, but Molly can tell he is being deliberately ambiguous and deftly avoiding mention of the scene Molly had witnessed. She is also barely listening, knowing that anything he tells her will only be what he wants her to hear. Something about their sister, Eurus, Molly can't help thinking that it's a beautiful name. Something about the faculty being reprogrammed by Eurus, which enabled her to run the facility and grant her all the resources to exact her plan on Sherlock. Something about emotional context. He doesn't elaborate on anything.

The elder Holmes suspects he's lost his audience and clears his throat. Molly turns to him, her eyes glazed from fatigue and tears. He redirects, "I should like to deploy a team of agents to thoroughly assess your flat, removing any and all devices and ensuring it is 100% safe before you return to it. I will arrange to have your pet boarded and any personal items you should wish retrieved for you. There is a safe-house you may occupy until the security of your home is assured. I can arrange-"

"Baker Street is destroyed," Molly interrupts, but her thought seems to trail off.

Mycroft hesitates a moment before responding, "Yes. Mrs. Hudson has been sent to her sister's home until 221B can be fully restored. And Sherlock-"

"I go where Sherlock goes." Molly blurts, interrupting again while looking out the window.

Mycroft watches her pointedly, about to explain that this was already the plan, but thinks it better to allow her some semblance of control after everything that's happened. He nods, "As you wish."

The rest of the ride is spent in companionable silence. They pull up to a small townhouse in Leyton. Molly exits the vehicle before either the driver or Mycroft can chivalrously open the door for her. Molly looks up sleepily at the quaint, little house as Mycroft sidles up beside her.

"It's fully furnished. There's food in the kitchen, and clothing in the wardrobes. Not the most stylish ensembles, but enough variety in style and size to accommodate most guests. There are toiletries as well. You should feel free to stay as long as you like, I will be sure to inform you as soon as your flat has been cleared." There's a pause that seems to hang in the air. Molly is still staring up at the stone façade when Mycroft clears his throat. "Dr. Hooper…" he suddenly seems uncomfortable, almost fidgeting where he stands.

She turns to him then, her brow furrowed in curiosity. He continues, "I know that my brother has caused you an… incalculable amount of grief throughout your accord…" He draws a pained breath, obviously at odds with the sentiment, his blue-gray eyes suddenly catching hers. "He was dragged through Hell by his ankles, tonight. I beg of you… forgive him."

Molly's face betrays no expression as she takes in the man before her. His eyes are watery, but permit no tears and Molly feels hers burn with the threat of her own. Hesitantly, she reaches for him, gently resting her hands on his shoulders. He stiffens beneath her, but doesn't recoil. She smiles easily, "This time…" She shakes her head. "There's nothing to forgive." With that, she backs away and treads towards the front door.

From behind her Mycroft calls out, "Sherlock will be back soon. He will be brought here. You have my word."

Turning back, she smiles again and then enters the house.

A few agents had been sent ahead to prepare the house and they scurry out as Molly makes her way into the kitchen. They inform her that a detail will be stationed outside and then they take their leave. She does a quick inventory of the cupboards and fridge, considers making a cup of tea and waiting up for Sherlock, but knows it could be hours before he wraps things up with Sherrinford and Scotland Yard. She is exhausted and she knows there will be plenty of time to talk later. She does opt to shower at this point, the hot water making her all the more relaxed and drowsy while she goes over everything she's heard and seen in the last day. She brushes out her hair, cleans her teeth and then rummages up a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. She burrows under the duvet and sleep mercifully overtakes her.

Molly stirs to the sound of a door opening. She scrambles out of the bed and begins to walk slowly down the hall. She's suddenly overwhelmed with nerves and tightly crosses her arms across her chest to still her shaking hands. Softly emerging into the sitting room, she sees Sherlock standing just inside the front door. He's staring at the floor, looking bewildered and filthy. She watches for a moment, waiting for him to move, when he doesn't she presses forward.

"Sherlock?" she says softly, encouragingly, a gentle smile on her lips. As though shaken from a trance, his eyes dart to her face, he looks almost feral. He takes a haggard breath and pales, like he's seen a ghost. Molly takes a tentative step towards him and a gasp escapes him, it's both a laugh and a sob. Her face twists with concern and she is about to move forward again when he suddenly rushes to her, stumbling awkwardly into the room and collapsing at her feet. Drawing up to his knees, he wraps his arms around her waist, burying his face in her middle. She can feel his hot breath against her stomach as he chokes with grief. She's got one hand rubbing gently between his shoulders and the other running through his mess of raven curls. He smells like sweat and swamp and smoke, but it doesn't stop her from breathing him in. She feels him calm under her soothing ministrations and he finally looks up at her, his blue eyes wild with emotion. It's a strange and startling look on him. She draws a hand to his face, cradling his cheek, then coaxes him to his feet. He stands before her silently, his breathing slowing and just stares at her. She knows he's entirely out of his element, and while she doesn't know exactly what's happened to him, she knows it was brutal and she has spent the last 18 hours looking to take care of him. So she does.

She takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom, and he follows almost blindly. She helps him out of his Belstaff and jacket, and he sits on the bed as she drops to help him out of his shoes. Back on her feet, she retrieves some pajamas out of the wardrobe and hands them to him. He looks up at her expectantly and she smiles. "Go ahead and clean up. Then come to bed and get some rest."

He nods and stands slowly, then retreats into the washroom.

Molly climbs back into the bed and takes a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. She knows he'll want to talk to her, but despite her burning curiosity and eagerness to discuss… everything, they both desperately need sleep.

He comes out of the washroom dressed in the sleep clothes she gave him, and he weakly crawls into the bed next to her. She scoots up a bit and opens her arm to him. He quickly wraps his arms around her and clings to her side like a child, his head just under her chin. She pulls the duvet over him and then her hand is in his hair again, tangled in his locks, gently scratching his scalp. The fingers of her other hand are laced with his at her side. They lie in tangible silence for a while, then Molly feels Sherlock shift.

"Molly…" he croaks, then clears his throat, "Molly, I –"

"Shh… it's alright. We don't have to do this now," she says softly, but feels him shake his head.

"No, I have to…" His voice breaks, and she can feel his despair renew. She wiggles out from under him, moving down the bed to lie on her side, facing him. They are nose to nose. She brings their hands between them, fingers tightly wound together. He shakes, his mouth forming words but unable to make any sound besides stuttering gasps. She frees one hand to rest against his face, running her thumb across his cheekbone and wiping a tear. She waits to catch his gaze.

"It's okay. I know. I know, but it can wait." She tries to assure him with her eyes that there's nothing he needs to say to her tonight.

His expression tightens though and he practically growls, "I do not want to wait anymore. I have wasted years already." The word draws a quiet sob from him.

Molly's heart aches for him, and again she soothes, leaning forward so their foreheads touch. "I know, love. I know. Believe me, I know," she sniffles, tears once again threatening. She draws his hands to her mouth and presses soft kisses to his bruised and bloodied knuckles, her eyes shut tightly as she remembers these hands punching and tearing apart the coffin. She presses another kiss to them, lingering, then draws his mouth to hers.

The kiss is firm, but brief and as she pulls back to look at him again, he has visibly calmed. She inches her body closer to him and he again wraps his arms around her, drawing her flush and holding her tight. He buries his face in her hair and take a long, deep breath, his stubble scrapes at her cheek and she presses her face into the crook of his neck. Soon the rhythm of their steady breaths and beating hearts lulls them both to sleep.


	6. Inception

Molly awakens to the sound of a garbage truck groaning down the road out front. She blinks, adjusting to the light, and takes in her surroundings. For a moment she's confused… this isn't her bedroom. But the weight she feels across her chest is an instant reminder of her current condition. She looks down at Sherlock, fast asleep, still clinging to her like the edge of a cliff. She gently releases herself from his grasp, whispering apologies about needing the loo. He doesn't stir. Despite the pressure in her bladder, she watches him for a moment. In all the years she's known him, all the times he's used her flat as a bolt hole, she's never seen him sleep so deeply. Before she can stop herself, she pushes a few curls off his forehead and leans down to press her lips to them. Then she makes her way into the en suite.

After relieving herself and washing her face, she pads into the kitchen. She knows there's bread and eggs, so she sets about making some breakfast. Coffee is brewing and she's about to begin a quest for sugar when she hears a thump and a cry from the bedroom.

"Molly?" she hears Sherlock call, his voice sounds pained and panicked. She sets down her mug and begins to walk back to the bedroom when Sherlock's cries become louder and more fearful, "Oh god, MOLLY!" She's running now, hearing more banging noises as she rushes into the room. Sherlock is sprawled across the bed, the lamps are overturned from pillows having been tossed aside, the duvet has been thrown onto the floor, as though he was tearing apart the bed, searching for something, for her.

"Sherlock!" she gasps, her heart pounding in fear and confusion at his present state. He looks at her then, eyes as frightened and wild as they had been the night before. She approaches the bed as he scrambles over to her. She throws her arms around his shoulders, cradling his head. "My goodness, I'm here, Sherlock. I'm right here."

He's holding her almost painfully tight, "I thought you'd gone. I thought I'd lost you again." He sniffles and she's not sure he's completely awake.

Pulling her head back and turning his face to look at her, she sighs, "I've not gone anywhere. I was just in the kitchen. I wouldn't leave, we've got too much to discuss," she says cheekily, trying to lighten the somber mood.

He huffs and presses his forehead against her breastbone, seeming embarrassed. She's absently stroking his hair as he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, rubbing the sleep and tears away. He groans, "I have no idea what I am doing."

His hands move to settle on her waist, but he keeps his brow firmly planted against her chest.

She laughs then. "No one knows what they're doing. We just wing it and hope for the best." He looks up at her, taking in her smirk and realizes she's teasing him. Sherlock closes his eyes, gathering his thoughts. Sensing him building momentum, Molly kisses his nose. "Come on then. Breakfast." She pulls him to his feet and guides him to the kitchen table.

After he's eaten enough to her satisfaction, they both settle into their seats as though bracing themselves. He tells her everything. About the governor, about Eurus, the Garrideb brothers, the plane, Redbeard, and Victor. She listens in silence, but her face betrays every emotion she feels throughout his harrowing story. He often opts not to look her in the eye as he speaks, seeming to lose his nerve whenever he sees her large brown eyes full of tears. When it finally comes down to the trial of the coffin, Molly shifts awkwardly in her seat. For the first time in over an hour, she speaks,

"Sherlock, did Mycroft or Greg tell you anything about yesterday?" She's looking up at him through her lashes, chewing her lips nervously.

He nods weakly, "Just that you shanghaied the British navy and launched an attack on Sherrinford."

He smirks shyly as she rolls her eyes, laughing.

"OK, besides that part."

He reaches over and takes her hand, softly running his thumb across it. He turns serious again, "You saw the footage. You know the call was to save you, from what I thought was a legitimate threat." He pauses, his voice breaking softly. "I never meant to hurt you."

She squeezes his hand in return and smiles. "Sherlock, I know that. I saw what she made you do. And I knew when you called that something wasn't right. I knew in my heart you couldn't be that cruel. I just… I was already having an awful day. Tom got married, I saw it in the paper and I just got angry at everything. At myself, at you… Then you called, and it was like a slap in the face, but… when you actually said… it, I could tell that you weren't yourself. You sounded afraid, and you begged me to respond. It was still hard to say it, but once the call dropped I went to find you."

He's looking intently at her again, his razor-sharp eyes taking in every single detail of her face. He frowns a moment and says, "You say I wasn't myself, but that isn't quite true. Eurus's point in that exercise was to strip me down to my most basic emotional elements. It wasn't really about hearing you say it… It was about me." His eyes fall to their joined hands.

Molly's brow furrows in confusion, "I don't understand," she says softly, honestly.

He pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment before rejoining his hand with hers. "It wasn't enough for Eurus to know how I truly felt, she wanted it brought to the surface, raw and exposed… like a nerve. She knew everything about you, how you've always felt and how I've always treated you. She knew it would break me to do it… to tell you the truth."

He goes quiet then and Molly gasps silently, understanding beginning to dawn. She can feel the tightening in her throat, and her chin trembles. "But I thought…" She can't continue. Her thoughts are scattering like marbles, too much input at once and she thinks briefly that this sort of sensory assault is similar to what Sherlock deals with on a regular basis. She tries to control her breathing as Sherlock scoots his chair closer to her.

"She murdered my best friend, Molly. He was just a boy. I was so traumatized, I completely erased the memory. Of him, of her… Redbeard became a dog in my mind and the pain was so deep and so awful that no one in my family wanted to draw it back up. Things may very well have remained buried had Eurus not been given conference with… Moriarty." His tone drops sullenly and Molly's eye blow wide.

"What?! After what you said, did she -?" she stammers futilely.

He nods, "Yes, she got in his head and everything he did before he died was all her influence. She wanted to get my attention, but she didn't have the means until after Moriarty. But, more to the point, losing Victor in such a way was so awful that I repressed it. And spent the rest of my life hiding behind the walls that I had built to protect myself from that pain should anyone else I care for meet the same fate. John and Greg wore me down over the years, but I dug in my heels to protect myself from you." He sounds ashamed but also relieved to have given voice to these long held, but seldom seen feelings.

Molly is silently weeping, still being bombarded with years of pent up confusion, frustration and grief. It was all a front, she realizes, a façade so strong and firmly held that eventually the charade became the truth. Every harsh word, every dismissal, every insult was all an attempt to push her away. But at the same time, the thought of her moving on from him spurred him to senseless acts of jealousy and sabotage. All at once, everything made sense. And at the same time, nothing did.

A silence falls over the pair, both looking solemnly at their hands. Softly, without looking at him, Molly speaks, "So… what happens now, Sherlock? I mean, to us." She tries desperately to remove any hint of hope from her voice, remaining as neutral as possible.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and looks at her.

"It's clear to me now that I cannot be without you. But I also don't know how to be with you. After 30 years of emotional suppression… I'm practically a child. I will be difficult and insufferable, as always. I can't promise anything at all, I won't promise anything, but… I would vow to do everything within my power… to be worthy of you." He pauses as she meets his gaze. "If you'd have me," he breathes.

No longer able to stop the flow of tears she throws her arms around him and buries her face against his neck. She inhales deeply and then chokes out a laugh. "Oh… you're such a fucking bastard!" Against her chest she feels the rumble of his deep laughter as he folds his arms about her.

"Yes, I know. I'm so sorry. I'm so, very sorry, Molly Hooper."

Drawing back to look at him, they both share an awkward smile. Wiping her eyes as she rises from her seat, she closes the distance between them and settles into Sherlock's lap. He leans back and puts a hand around her hips and one across her legs, steadying her.

"Before I agree to anything," she starts, "I want to be completely clear about a few things." She fixes a pointed look on him, he nods resolutely and Molly continues, "I want marriage. I want children. I want a home and a garden, and parent/teacher meetings, and Christmas dinners, and…"

"And a dog?" Sherlock grins.

She gives him a teasing glare. "But I also want experiments and mysteries, Beauchene skulls and honey bees. I don't want to take anything away from you, but I don't want anything taken from me either. I've already given up so much… This has to be something you're willing to do." she says seriously. She feels the hands on her squeeze, he swallows thickly and nods.

"I don't think I can go back to how I was before, not now. Not after Eurus. But I'm still me. I think I can be a more tolerable me, with your help." He brushes her hair behind her ear and tweaks her nose. "I want to be the man you have always believed me to be and give you everything your enormous heart desires." He smiles brightly. The kind of smile she's seen on him precious few times and her heart swells.

He's gazing at her oddly and she senses what it is he's after, but is too unsure to ask for. She turns toward him and places her hands at the sides of his face, brushing his temples lightly. Her eyes dart back and forth between his eyes and his mouth as she closes the distance between them.

They share the same breath, each taking kisses in small, soft sips at first, both a little unsure and learning. The passion builds slowly, like a tiny subtle ember, growing stronger with each breath. Sherlock cradles her face with his large hands and pulls back to look at her, overwhelmed by this unfamiliar longing in his gut and an overpowering warmth in his chest as she smiles sweetly, expectantly. Suddenly, his expression brightens.

"So... if we're married, that pretty much guarantees me a steady supply of body parts, right?" He smirks playfully.

Molly leans back with a huff, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms across her chest. She bobs her head in mock thought.

"Maybe… I'll see if I can pull a few strings."


End file.
